The Night of Villar's Vengeance
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: One-shot. An unexpected knock on the varnish car door leads to a tale about a certain colorful little toy…


James West and Artemus Gordon were sitting in the varnish car of their train going over the briefing files for their next case when a knock sounded at the main door. Both men looked up.

"Who could that be?"

"No idea."

And just to be on the safe side, each of the two Secret Service agents made sure to have a gun close at hand as Artie stepped to the door and opened it.

"Mr Gordon! Good to see you again!" said the vaguely familiar man standing on the rear platform. He was long and lean, his ebony face sporting a brushy mustache. His deeply dark eyes swept past Gordon to light on the other agent. "And Mr West!" the visitor added. "Good to see you as well. May I come in?"

"Ah…" The partners exchanged a glance.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" said the stranger. "All right. Imagine me without the mustache, and instead of this perfectly ordinary — if not boring — suit, attired in a turban of red, purple, and gold, along with a purple silk shirt, a billowing striped robe, and carrying an unlimited supply of apples…" He grinned at the odd looks the agents were giving him. "Oh, and one more thing: a little, er, _friend_ always on my arm. Fellow by the name of Julio. Remember him?"

The light definitely dawned now. "Villar!" Gordon exclaimed.

"Count Manzeppi's ventriloquist," added West.

The man at the door nodded. "That's me. Or, well… _was_ me. May I come in now?"

The agents exchanged glances again, and Artie stepped back to usher their visitor inside. He also took a quick look around outside before closing the door; Count Manzeppi had a disconcerting habit of simply showing up on their train, completely uninvited. If one of the count's erstwhile minions was here, might not the occultic count be near as well?

"What brings you here, Villar?" said Jim brusquely, his hand still close to his hidden gun.

"Oh, I have a certain reason to celebrate tonight, and thought you gentlemen might want to join me." With a smile he dipped his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket.

Instantly both agents' guns were in their hands. Villar blinked, then slowly brought his own hand back into plain sight.

He was now holding a cigar case. "Sorry. Didn't mean to alarm you. Care for a stogie?" He opened the case. "Not exactly Havanas, but the best I could afford. Before tonight, that is. Have one?" He held forth the case, waited. "No?" He shrugged when neither agent accepted his offer, took a cigar out for himself, put away the rest, then went through the ritual of clipping and lighting his stogie.

Then, blowing out a smoke ring, he crossed to one of the varnish car's two gold sofas, made himself at home, and smiled up at his hosts. "I suppose you're wondering what occasion it is I have to celebrate, hmm? Well, I'll tell you. Not three hours ago I met with Count Manzeppi. Hadn't seen him in years, but now that great man himself had come to me, hat in hand, to buy from me something he very much wanted. Can you guess what it was?"

The two agents again glanced at each other. "It, er, wouldn't have been a particular… toy, would it, Villar?" asked Artemus.

"Why, what do you know? That's exactly what it was!" Villar beamed. "A very special toy. You know what kind?"

"A chicken," said Jim flatly. "A brightly colored toy chicken that pecks at the ground when you wind it up."

Villar's smile grew even broader, if such a thing was possible. "You men are too perceptive! That's exactly what I sold to him. Cost him a pretty penny too: ten thousand dollars." He shook his head, chuckling. "Must have held a good deal of sentimental value for him, wouldn't you say?"

"It held a lot more than that!" Artie exclaimed.

"Hmm, maybe it did, maybe it did," said Villar, nodding. Then, with yet another wide grin, he added, "On the other hand, maybe it didn't."

Jim and Artie exchanged glances. "All right, Villar, why are you really here?" said Jim.

"And why on earth would you have turned over to Count Manzeppi that abominable toy chicken, knowing what it had inside it?" Artie chimed in. "And for that matter, how did you even get it? The last we ever saw of it, it had, well…"

He cut his eyes towards Jim, who supplied, "It had disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving only some gold leaf behind."

"Yeah!" said Artie, shuddering a bit internally at the memories of that uncanny night.

Villar spread his hands with an air of complete innocence. "You've got me all wrong, gentlemen! I really am here just to talk about what happened today — and, yes, what all led up to it. After all, how many people in this world are there who would even know what I'm talking about when I bring up Count Carlos Maria Vincenzo Robespierre Manzeppi, much less that stupid chicken. Am I right?"

Jim and Artie shared another glance. "All right, I'll admit it," Artie said at last. "Our young friend here certainly has a point."

"So you're here to, what: brag?" said Jim.

Villar glanced up at the ceiling and puffed on his cigar meditatively for a moment, then nodded. "Brag. Yeah, that pretty much says it in a nutshell. I finally got the best of that chiseler Manzeppi, and I wanna brag about it to someone who understands. And who better would understand than the pair of you?"

"Got the better of?" said Jim. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah! Anytime anyone ever thought they'd pulled the wool over ol' Manzeppi's eyes," Artie agreed, "they wound up having to watch their backs forever afterwards."

"If not winding up suddenly and spectacularly dead," put in Jim.

Villar frowned. "And you think I don't know that?" he growled. "After all that time I worked for him? That big hefty chunk of my life I dedicated to him and to the Eccentrics?"

"And yet you sit there and call him a chiseler!" said Artie. He shook his head with a long low whistle. "Somehow I don't think your boss will take too kindly to that, Villar."

" _Former_ boss!" said their guest with no little heat. "Former, and that for a lot of years now too! And anyway, believe me, gentlemen, if anyone alive knows what it's like to deal with Count Manzeppi, it's me. Didn't I follow him around like a puppy dog for years? Didn't I…" His jaw clenched. "Didn't I let him, let him reduce me to being Julio's flunky? Hardly ever speaking a word for myself either! No, it was always, 'Julio, tell the people this' and 'Julio, isn't that interesting' and 'Julio, listen to me blow my own horn about what a genius I am!' Always talking to _Julio_ , and never wanting to speak to Villar!" His eyes flaming, and without even realizing what his hands were doing, Villar took the cigar he'd been smoking and crushed it into shreds.

"And after all my loyalty!" he growled. "When the pair of you were done with us, turning Miranda's head so that she switched sides against us, then turning the others against each other so that they all wound up dead, who was the only member of the Eccentrics left to escape alongside the count? Me! Me, that's who, along with that dummy of mine Julio. We had to go to ground of course for quite some time while Manzeppi set about building the group back up again. He found that girl Gerda Sharff, and that dodo Dodo, and Luther the boy wonder with his cup-and-ball toy, and also that other brand of knife expert Benji. Which was all fine with me; I even helped to recruit some of them. But you know what happened then?"

The two agents glanced at each other. "Not really," said Artie.

"But I'm sure you're just about to tell us," said Jim.

"Oh, I'll tell you all right!" exclaimed Villar, jumping to his feet. "I'll tell you what he did: he dumped me!"

"Ah… 'Dumped'?"

"That's right, Mr Gordon! After all my years of loyalty, all those years of letting him silence me in favor of Julio's voice — Count Manzeppi threw me out of the Eccentrics! Said I wasn't of any use to him. Said I had no skills set, that all I was was a talker, and that he could do all the talking for himself. Now granted, I really wasn't a fighter; that's true. But I was _loyal_ to him! Doesn't loyalty count for anything?"

"With the count?" said Artie. "Apparently not."

"You said it!" groused Villar. "And what's worse, he went and replaced me with a monkey. A _monkey!_ If that ain't insulting, I don't know what is!"

The agents exchanged glances. "Monkey," said Jim. "You mean Loki?"

"Hey, you know what? He's right!" said Artie. "The first time we met Manzeppi, he kept asking questions of Julio; we never heard Villar talk. And then the second time, the count kept asking questions of little Loki. Of course the monkey couldn't reply, but…" He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he really was treating Loki very much the same way he had treated Julio." He winced. "I mean Villar. Sorry, Villar."

"No, you're right," said their guest in disgust. "He treated my puppet the same way he treated that nasty little monkey, while he treated me like I was less than either of 'em!"

"If it's any comfort to you, we _had_ marked your absence the next time we crossed swords with the Eccentrics," said Jim.

"Mm. Thank you for noticing," said Villar, calming down a bit. He resumed his seat on the sofa, finally discovering what he'd done to his cigar. Brushing the sundered tobacco away, he added with a sigh, "It was a heavy blow, believe me."

"So what did you do then?" asked Artie.

"Starved. At first. It wasn't easy finding a new job, you know. By that time I'd come to hate Julio, so I couldn't exactly work as a ventriloquist anymore. I also had a certain, well, reputation for being on the wrong side of the law, and that slammed a few doors in my face as well."

"And other criminal organizations?" Jim offered.

Villar made a face. "Once you've been canned by the great Manzeppi, who else is gonna touch you? You're damaged goods!"

"Ah… but when you say you starved, you don't really mean you _starved_ , did you?" asked Artie.

"For a while, indeed I did! I finally was able to put together a different kind of act. Instead of talking to Julio, asking and answering questions, I just stood up there and talked, telling the jokes all by myself. It was rough going for a while, and I had to change my name a few times too, but, yeah, I made it. I finally made it."

"Good for you," said Jim.

"Takes a lot of work, going straight!" said Artie. "Congratulations!" He held out a hand.

"Well…" Villar regarded the hand for a bit, then shook it. "Thank you. Thank you, Mr Gordon."

"But that's not all of the story, is it?" added Jim.

Again Villar sighed. "No. No it isn't, Mr West. Once I was finally on my feet again, then I decided to, well, find out what had happened to Manzeppi's new set of Eccentrics. That wasn't so hard to learn: the two of you had happened to them! One of them wound up dead and the others captured, while Manzeppi, of course, got away scot-free." He eyed the agents. "But that wasn't all of it. There was the matter of a certain little toy chicken."

Artie nodded. "Yeah, which had totally disappeared!"

"A little chicken Manzeppi would have killed to get back," added Jim.

"Or at least given his eyeteeth for," Artie agreed.

"And somehow you found it?" Jim asked.

"Not somehow," said Villar. "No, I didn't luck into the thing; I didn't just happen to find it, not by any means! No, I worked my hind end off trying to track that thing down, and looking over my shoulder all the while too, knowing that Manzeppi was doing the very same thing. The last thing I wanted was for him to catch me in the act, 'cause he'd have killed me."

"Yes, and he might yet," said Jim.

"No," said Villar confidently. Pulling out his cigar case, he set about lighting up a new stogie. "No, he won't. Not now, at least. You see, I finally ran the little bird to ground, and once I knew for sure it was the real McCoy, then I let it be known that if a, uh, certain fat bastard wanted it, he'd have to deal with me." He leaned back and blew a smoke ring before adding, "And that's exactly what he did."

"He came to you and bought it from you?" said Jim skeptically.

"Wait!" exclaimed Artie. "You say you made sure it was the real deal? The genuine article? In other words, you set it out by moonlight with some base metal items…"

Villar was nodding. "Exactly, Mr Gordon. On the night of the full moon I put the chicken alongside some things made of iron and… Well, here!" He reached into a pocket and produced a few links of heavy gauge chain. "Solid gold!"

Jim took the chain, inspected it closely, then handed it off to Artie, who gave it an even closer examination. No doubt about it: this was really gold.

Shaking his head, Artie passed the chain back to its owner. "And you sold _that_ to Manzeppi. I cannot believe it!"

"Neither can I," said Jim. "Anyone who owns the Philosopher's Stone doesn't need to sell it for ten thousand dollars to make money. All he needs to do is keep transmuting base metals into gold, and he's set for life."

"True, true," said Villar. "But there's a caveat to that: anyone who owns the Philosopher's Stone only owns it as long as he can keep anyone else from taking it away from him. I knew good and well that if I didn't sell it to Manzeppi, he would soon discover I had it and come after it, an event I might well not live through. So I set up the deal myself for an amicable result all around." Again he leaned back and blew a smoke ring. "Well," he added, "maybe not entirely _all_ around…"

The agents exchange a glance. "Meaning?" said Artie.

"Meaning," Villar replied, "that the amicable result is likely to last only until the next full moon. Which happens to be twenty-four days from now. Which gives me twenty-four days to spend that ten thousand dollars in such a way that I disappear from notice entirely." He smiled in satisfaction.

Another exchange of glances. "Villar," said James West. "What did you do?"

"Are you saying that the chicken you sold to Manzeppi didn't contain the Philosopher's Stone?" added Artie cautiously.

Villar took a puff of his cigar. "Maybe it did, and maybe it didn't."

"Manzeppi's gonna find out if you pulled a switcheroo on him!" Artie exclaimed, even as Jim repeated his question of, "Villar, what did you do?"

"Oh, don't worry, Mr Gordon. I knew that the count would be sure to check the contents of the chicken, and I made sure that the little item inside it looked and felt exactly how it ought to. As for what I did, Mr West." Villar beamed and cast his eyes up at the ceiling once more. "After making myself a few more items to go with that bit of gold chain, as well as making the most perfect looking duplicate of the Philosopher's Stone that I could possibly make, I put the fake one inside the chicken, and then I rowed myself out into the middle of San Francisco Bay." He paused to grin broadly, obviously enjoying himself. "And I tossed the real Philosopher's Stone over the side into the bottom of the bay, where I challenge anyone — even the great count himself! — to ever be able to find it again."

Villar beamed, then got to his feet. "And that's what I'm celebrating. I finally got my revenge on that big fat blowhard. He may track me down one of these days to take his own revenge in return; I hope he won't, but he might. But in the meantime, I got him back for the way he tossed me aside, and I made absolutely sure that he will never ever _ever_ regain the one thing on this earth he prizes above all else!

"And now…" Villar held out his hand and shook hands with each of the agents in turn. "Good night, and good-bye. Like I said, I wanted to celebrate, and I figured there wasn't anyone else who would appreciate the story the way the two of you would. Bye!" He headed for the door, and Artie moved with him to hold it for their departing guest.

For a long moment Artie stood in the doorway watching Villar stride off across the railroad yards, then climb into a waiting cab and be driven away. When he at last sighed and started to close the door, he found Jim standing at his elbow. Artie sighed again and shook his head. "What do you think, Jim?"

"I think that young man has signed his own death warrant."

"Yeah, me too. Do you think… do you think it's really possible he may have pulled a fast one on Manzeppi?"

"I doubt it. But he does have until the next full moon before Manzeppi figures it out, so maybe he can get far, far away by then."

"Yeah, maybe." Again Artie sighed and shook his head. "Oh well," he added as he shut the door, "as long as he's happy, huh?"

"Yeah. And as long as Manzeppi can't recover the real Philosopher's Stone!" Jim replied.

"Well, that is true. That is the one definite plus in the whole story." With a final glance after Villar's departed cab, Artie shut the door. "All right, where were we again?" And he and Jim returned to the notes of the new case they would be starting tomorrow.

Meanwhile, outside in the night, a very large shadow emerged from out of the darkness alongside the agents' train, and a deep plummy voice murmured gently, "Ah, Villar! So _that's_ what you've been up to, my old friend! Poor dear fellow though… One should always stick to what one knows best. For in attempting to best me, a grand past master of chicanery, poor Villar has shown himself to be what he always and ever was and will be: the dummy. Such a pity!"

At that point a deep rumbling laugh rolled out across the railroad yards, only to vanish in an instant to the accompaniment of a flash of light and a cloud of impenetrable smoke.

 **FIN**

 _Author's note: *sigh* The thing is, I wrote this because I wanted Villar to have a happy ending. But then Manzeppi horned in and insisted on having his own way instead… (And because of that, now there will have to be a sequel.)_


End file.
